


take my hand

by quentin coldwater (sassyweethang)



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: A Wee Break From The Quest, Canon Compliant, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Drabble, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, M/M, Missing Scene, Spoilers up to S03E05 'A Life in the Day', Taking care of Quentin, Talking, hand holding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2019-04-08 00:37:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14093190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassyweethang/pseuds/quentin%20coldwater
Summary: we'll make it i swear





	take my hand

Quentin sat cross legged on the floor, the quest book and all their notes strewn across the varnished wood in a tight semi-circle in front of him. 

Organised chaos...in its  _ loosest _ terms. 

He rested his chin on his clasped hands, staring at his hastily scrawled words until it all blurred together into a kaleidoscope of beige colours. Quentin sighed and scrubbed his hands down his face slowly. 

The ship creaked as it banked gently and Quentin went back to staring at their notes until an answer magically popped out at him. 

It could have been hours later when he heard someone clamber down the stairs. Quentin shook himself out of his self imposed trance and looked up to find Eliot lazily leaning against the curved wall at the bottom of the stairs. 

“Any luck?” Eliot asked quietly. 

Quentin groaned loudly in response ducking his head into his hands and letting his fingers dig into his scalp, tugging at strands of his oily hair. Eliot sighed to himself, a quiet exhale of breath that could barely be heard. 

The quest was stalled and the frustration was beginning to build in all of them.  

Quentin jerked in shock as Eliot clapped his hands together, the sound sharp and cutting through the quiet stillness of the cabin. 

“Alright then my little bookworm, time for some vitamin D,” Eliot declared sauntering over to him with a hand outstretched. His fingers wiggled in front of Quentin, beckoning him up. 

Quentin didn’t move though. 

“I can’t, I have to- I have to,” he sighed tiredly as he limply picked up a few loose rough papers to illustrate the work he was doing. 

“Work yourself until your brain melts out of your ears in a desperate bid for freedom?” Eliot finished dryly for him. Quentin rolled his eyes. 

Eliot’s fingers wiggled again, “Come, a little fresh air will do you good.”

“Eliot.”

“Uh, uh, uh, come now baby,” Eliot cut off any further protest.

Quentin pursed his lips for a moment and considered fighting Eliot but he was tired. Bone deep, mental and physical, exhaustion. He really didn’t have it in him to argue with Eliot. 

“Fine,” he sighed, giving in less than gracefully. 

Eliot smiled smugly in victory as Quentin grumbled under his breath, fitting his hand into Eliot’s and letting the older king pull him to his feet. 

Eliot’s hand was warm and dry and a touch unfamiliar. Quentin took a moment to realise why he was so disoriented. The familiar calluses and scars, wrinkles and dents of a long life etched into paper thin spotted skin were missing. A life remembered... but not lived or maybe it was just not quite  _ linear _ .  

Like looking for a step in the dark that wasn’t there but you were so sure it had been. It was  _ odd _ . Yes, odd, that was the best way of articulating the off-centred feeling in his chest. 

Eliot’s smile when he met his eyes was a little sad and nostalgic, lost in the memories they shouldn’t have but did as much as Quentin. He wasn’t surprised. Eliot knew - and had known - him as well as Quentin knew his beloved first edition of  _ Fillory and Further.  _ Every inch of him an open book, lovingly cradled between Eliot’s hands. 

Quentin smiled at Eliot, as soft and warm as he could manage with the lingering grief that tainted their life together like a corner of mould growing in a old window pane. 

Eliot squeezed his hand and led him to the stairs and up, content to keep hold of Quentin’s hand like an excitable child who could run off at any moment. 

Quentin would have chaffed under the mothering normally but he merely tightened his grip on Eliot, afraid that he’d let go and leave Quentin adrift in that grief hovering like a storm on the horizon. Eliot was real and here and  **_alive_ ** . Just so long as Quentin could touch him. So long as Quentin could feel the warmth in his smooth skin and the gentle beat of his heart beneath the fingers clasped around his wrist. He was still here, breathing and whole in way Quentin had dreamed of ( _ hadn’t  _ dreamed because it  _ didn’t _ happen, except that it sort of had…god that was confusing) for more than one or two decades. 

They stepped out onto the deck and Quentin squiented in the bright warm rays. His eyes watering a little. The sea air was cool, offsetting the heat of summer with a salty damp smell. 

Eliot led him to a small bench tucked along the edge of the ship and prodded him to sit down. The soft rolling of the boat over the waves was more pronounced on deck and Quentin let it relax him as he stared out at the glittering clear blue ocean. Eliot settled at his side, throwing his feet up onto the railing and an arm around Quentin’s shoulder. It made him smile as he let the the roll of the ship rock him into Eliot’s side where he relaxed finally. 

His muscles ached from hours hunched over notes and the release of tension made him groan happily as he snuggled closer to Eliot who simply chuckled. Something Quentin felt more than heard as he rested against Eliot’s chest. 

“Told you,” Eliot sang a little smugly and Quentin slapped at his thigh half-heartedly. 

They let the quiet rustle of waves and creaks and groans of the wooden ship wash over them, just relaxing in the Fillory sun. At some point Quentin’s eyelids shut, the heavy feeling he’d been carrying softly weighing him down into a gentle doze. Not quite asleep but not fully awake either. 

“Remember the napping game?” Eliot asked quietly, Quentin felt his lips twitch in smile. 

“Yeah,” he answered just as softly. 

Eliot had created it when Rupert had reached the ripe age of pure hyperactivity and constant questions. They’d loved him, without reserve, but boy could he talk about anything and nothing with barely a pause for breath. So Eliot had started a little game where, when they’d reached their wits end and Rupert showed no sign of slowing down, they’d instigate a game of tag. Chasing their little boy around the clearing they called home until he was breathless with giggles. Once caught, it was time to lie down on the bed beside the mosaic and rest. More often than not they’d fall asleep right with him but it was peaceful and fun and served not only to avoid yelling at one another and their son when their last nerve was frayed but also as a way to break up the monotony of working on the tiles.  

“I think we need a new kind of napping game for you, before you go quest bonkers,” Eliot stated, softening his insinuation of impending insanity with a kiss to Quentin’s forehead. 

“Guess I could use a break every now and then,” Quentin acquiesced. 

“Look at you finally getting the idea behind self care,” Eliot said cheerily without the sarcasm that Quentin would have expected, “What’d it take, eighty, ninety years?”

And there was the sarcasm. Quentin chuckled lightly, “You ass.”

He slapped at Eliot’s thigh again, or tried to when Eliot stopped him by grabbing his hand. He tangled their fingers together, his thumb rubbing away the ink stain on the side of Quentin’s hand as he kissed his head again. 

Quentin settled in again staring at Eliot’s hand in his, remembering the life they’d shared. The intimacy and domesticity of it all and the nights they’d sat together just like this. Quiet and close not for lack of words but for the simple joy of each other’s company. 

And Rupert, sweet little Rupert who’d grown into such a wise man full of love before their very eyes.  

A sudden feeling of grief seemed to hollow him out and he felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes.

“I miss him,” he mumbled quietly, “so much.”

He didn’t bother to hide the thick wet weight to his words and Eliot squeezed his hand tightly. 

“Me too Q, me too,” Eliot sighed sadly, resting his head against Quentin’s. He ignored the soft shake to Quentin’s shoulders, letting him cry quietly for the life and son that once was in peace. 

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://cattarinaloss.tumblr.com) & [Twitter](https://twitter.com/alineppenhallow)  
> 


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